


Connecting The Dots

by wave_of_sorrow



Category: A-Team (2010)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-02
Updated: 2012-02-02
Packaged: 2017-10-30 12:39:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/331830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wave_of_sorrow/pseuds/wave_of_sorrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Hannibal is an idiot and breaks Face's heart and communication seems to be nobody's strong suit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Connecting The Dots

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a request on the kinkmeme that asked for Hannibal cheating on Face. If you know that's something the bothers you, don't read. It doesn't feature in until about halfway through and you can skip the actual cheating part (i.e. the m/f sex), but it is the core part of the story. Just a fair warning.

“Hey, boss.”

It’s low and hot and whispered directly into his ear and it makes the hairs on his arms stand up. He doesn’t say anything, and watches Face order a drink that consists mostly of sugar and food colouring.

“Like what you see?” Face asks, leaning in too close, and he sucks on the piece of pineapple that came with his drink.

Hannibal has two options here: shout over the music or move into Face’s personal space. Face, whose hips are still vaguely moving along with the rhythm of the music. Face, who smells like smoke and alcohol and expensive cologne. Face, whose shirt is unbuttoned just a little too far, showing off his chest and collarbones and what would that spot, the one right there, taste like?

Hannibal takes a step back and goes with shouting. “Beg pardon?”

Face grins at him, quick and breathless, and moves in again, and Hannibal can fucking _feel_ the heat coming off his body.

“I saw you looking at me,” he whispers, low and gritty, and sticky fingers trail over the inside of Hannibal’s forearm. His heart speeds up and the muscles in his arm twitch, barely, but enough to make Face rub his thumb over the pulse point.

Had he been staring? He didn’t think so. He’d been keeping an eye on the kid, trying to keep track of his progress along the dance floor, drinking his whiskey and enjoying the freedom of being able to… openly stare at Face. Well, fuck.

“I…” He wants to say something, he really does, but everything is muffled by alcohol and thudding music and Face’s proximity. How had he ever let himself be dragged along to this?

“It’s okay,” Face murmurs, cheeks flushed and breath coming too quickly, and puts a hand on Hannibal’s hip.

“It is?”

Face nods, and with their chests brushing he has to tilt his head back a little to be able to look Hannibal in the eye, and Hannibal wants to lick off the bead of sweat that rolls down Face’s throat.

“Is this?” he breathes against Hannibal’s lips, tasting sweet and heady. “Is this okay?”

“More than okay, kid.” It gets him a small, relieved exhalation and a brilliant smile.

“Awesome,” Face whispers, and nudges his lips against Hannibal’s in a way that makes it unmistakably clear that he wants to be kissed.

And so Hannibal does, cupping the back of his neck and pulling him in, groaning a little when Face opens his mouth. It’s messy, too fast and too rough, and there’s absolutely no skill, no control in the way they both try to gain the upper hand in it.

Before he knows what he’s even doing, Hannibal has a hand tight in Face’s hair, tipping the kid’s head back, the other against the small of his back, pushing their groins together. Face struggles a little, and Hannibal growls, pushing him back into the bar and pinning him there. And Face submits to him with the most delightful little moan. He can’t hear it, but he can feel the vibrations against his tongue.

He gets a thigh between Face’s legs, pushing just a little, just enough to make the kid grind down into him, holding onto his biceps for dear life. He presses his own erection against Face’s hip, needing to relieve the pressure just a bit, and he can’t help biting down on Face’s tongue when Face squeezes a hand between them to rub Hannibal through his pants.

Hannibal breaks away with a muttered curse and grabs Face’s wrist. “Not here,” he says, right into Face’s ear, and it gets him a full-body shudder and a jerky nod.

The cab ride back to his place is short, but long enough for Hannibal to sober up a little, to start thinking about the ramifications. They work together. He’s Face’s CO, for fuck’s sake. There are rules against this shit. This could get them both into all kinds of trouble. He should absolutely not do this.

Besides, they’re friends. He’s quite possibly the only paternal figure Face has ever had, and that right there? That is something he doesn’t even want to think about.

And if all of that wasn’t enough, he’s been in love with the kid since Face was way too young and too reckless. Hannibal has wanted him since he first saw him, flashing blue eyes with too much knowledge in them. He remembers wanting to hold Face, tell him that it’s going to be okay and then never, ever let go.

He still wants to, if Face would let him, wants to take him away from all of this, somewhere where they can be together without having to worry about keeping it secret.

He really, really shouldn’t do this.

And then they’re stumbling through the door and into the foyer and Face is kissing him and starting to tug his shirt out of his pants, warm fingers skidding over warmer skin, and he’s trying to stop, he really is, but…

“So long,” Face whispers in between kisses, “I want… Oh God, it’s been… so long…”

Of course, Hannibal thinks, _of course_ that’s all this is. Face being his usual, horny self, and having no one else to go to, turning to Hannibal to scratch that itch for him.

What else could this ever be? He’d been a fool to believe Face would ever want him for more than a quick, drunk fuck, let alone love him. He can almost hear Face laughing at him now, such a pathetic, lonely old man, thinking this gorgeous boy could ever have feelings for him.

It makes him sad, and then angry, and he kisses Face all the harder for it, shoving him up against the wall and enjoying the gasp it gets him.

Fuck this, he thinks. Fuck the rules. Fuck that they’re drunk. Fuck the implications, and the sheer _wrongness_ of it all. Fuck Face, and the stupid feelings he has for the kid. Fuck all of it.

If one night is all he’ll ever get, he’ll make damn sure Face won’t forget it.

He has a plan half-finished in his mind, involving a bed and lots of lube, but before he can start steering Face into the direction of the bedroom, the kid drops to his knees and unbuckles Hannibal’s belt.

“Face,” he says, and can’t get anything else out, because Face just opens his pants, shoves his underwear out of the way and swallows him down, no preamble and no teasing, just the wet heat of his mouth stretched over Hannibal’s erection.

He has half a mind to pull him off, to at least get them out of the hall, away from the front door, but then the head of his cock hits the back of Face’s throat and the way the kid groans at that is pure, filthy relief and it makes Hannibal’s toes curl.

He steadies himself against the door, trapping Face between his body and the wood and somehow Face doesn’t seem to mind. Hannibal reaches down to touch Face’s jaw, his throat, to feel the muscles work as the kid tries to take him deeper. It’s the little keening noises, Face’s throat muscles thrumming right against the swollen tip of his cock and making his hips buck, that have him grab the back of Face’s head and pull out.

Face opens his mouth like he wants to say something, so Hannibal yanks him up and kisses him. Face tastes like cock and pineapple and artificial flavouring, and it’s so obscene it makes Hannibal bite the kid’s lip until all he can taste is blood.

Face whines high in his throat, fingers tight on Hannibal’s hips, and Hannibal almost pulls away, almost feels sorry, until he feels how hard Face is, shamelessly rutting against him, until he remembers what this is all about.

And isn’t that just fucking great? The kid doesn’t only like to suck cock, he even gets off on Hannibal’s anger.

Fucking perfect.

He pulls Face down the hall, letting himself be stopped every once in a while for more kisses, more touching, more breathless words Hannibal doesn’t let him finish, and by the time they reach the bedroom, they’ve lost their shirts and shoes and their pants are undone.

Hannibal can’t resist slipping his hands down into Face’s underwear to cup his ass and pull him in, their cocks sliding against each other as they try and fail to find a rhythm, hips working too out of synch in their eagerness. It should be awkward, and maybe it is, but all they can do is moan into each other’s mouths.

Lying down on the bed was a spectacular idea, Hannibal decides. Finding their rhythm is so much easier now, when the room isn’t spinning anymore and Face is spreading his legs and Hannibal can grind his hips down until Face finds the countermovement.

Hannibal wraps a had around their cocks and just squeezes and Face throws his head back, offering his throat in an unconscious display of surrender, but unconscious or not, Hannibal is prepared to take full advantage. The first nip is light and quick, more lips than teeth and right under Face’s Adam’s apple. It gets him a gasp and a twitch of the hips and Hannibal can’t help a low chuckle at that.

He trails little bites all over Face’s throat, licking and kissing and leaving pink marks that will be gone by morning. It’s not what he wants, not by a long shot, but he realizes that while Face may be his to fuck for the night, he’s not his to mark.

Face seems to disagree.

“Oh fuck,” he groans, twisting his head to get Hannibal to go back to right above his pulse point, and Hannibal pulls away completely. “No, please! Please…” Face sounds so fucking desperate it makes Hannibal’s cock throb.

“Face,” he growls, hoping it gets the warning across.

“No, please,” Face whispers, eyes screwed shut and panting, arching his neck. “Please… I want you to… I want to feel it…”

And there’s that little reminder again. Face wants to feel it, this, the pain, the pleasure, whatever. _It_ and not Hannibal.

For a moment Hannibal just looks at him, watches all that obscenely soft and fragile skin shift over muscle and tendons, Face’s pulse hammering wildly, the light sheen of sweat and his own saliva, the little bitemarks, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s biting down.

Face moans, loud and long, and holds Hannibal’s head in place and that alone is enough to make Hannibal suck hard, tasting salt and iron and lost hopes, feeling the kid’s heartbeat drumming against his tongue. All he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and Face’s _oh oh oh_ ’s that have gone breathless as his hips buck up into Hannibal’s.

When he finally rips his mouth away he finds a large, purple mark right above Face’s pulse point and he almost hates the kid for letting him do this, for allowing this so easily and from just anyone.

“Oh shit,” Face moans, hands clenching and unclenching against the sheets now, and his eyes are still closed, head still thrown back. “Oh _fuck_.”

Hannibal wraps his hand back around their cocks, hot and heavy against Face’s stomach, and tugs, firm and slow.

“Look at me,” he demands, not wanting Face to slip away to some imaginary lover, wanting him here, in this moment, if it’s going to be all he ever gets.

Face’s eyes are unfocused when they open, pupils blown, but they fix on Hannibal with startling precision and speed. He strokes their cocks a few times, thumbs their heads, thrusts into it a little, feeling the kid’s pre-come mix with his own.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, low and gravelly, and Face makes a noise in the back of his throat that really might mean anything. His eyelids flutter a little, lips parting, and Hannibal can see it’s a struggle for him, to stay focussed, and so he leans in to speak directly into Face’s ear.

“I want to fuck you,” he growls, bites Face’s earlobe just for the hell of it, “Will you let me?”

The last comes out more softly than he intended, but he can’t not ask, can’t presume, can’t just take this beautiful boy, even if a bitter, twisted little voice in the back of his head tells him it would serve Face right, making him feel this way in the first place.

“Yes,” Face says, breathless and eager, “oh God, yes, please, you have no idea how much I—“

Hannibal cuts him off with a kiss, all tongue and noses bumping, angling their heads until they fit comfortably; he really doesn’t need to hear how much Face wants to be fucked, how long it’s been since the last time, how desperate he is. Desperate enough to come to Hannibal.

“Pants off, kid,” he says against Face’s mouth, kneeling up after a last lingering nip to an already bitten lip.

Hannibal moves out from between Face’s legs, kicks off his pants and locates a half-empty bottle of lube and a condom, and hopes to God the latter hasn’t expired since the last time he actually needed one.

Face is sitting up, placing compulsively folded jeans next to the bed, and Hannibal kisses a smooth shoulder blade and manoeuvres them around until they’re both lying on their sides, facing each other.

It’s the first time he gets to really look at Face in all his glory, and he’s left breathless, trailing a finger over collarbones and startlingly soft chest hair, down to circle a nipple until it stiffens and Face sighs and shifts closer. Hannibal is yanked back to reality, and wants to punch himself for getting lost in the boy like this.

Face nudges at Hannibal’s mouth, hesitant, almost unsure now that they’re naked, and Hannibal takes the hint and kisses him. The angle is awkward, and it’s too slow, too languid for this, too much like it means something, and so Hannibal rolls on top, pins Face to the bed and kisses him harder.

And maybe, maybe if he kisses him hard enough it’ll stop meaning anything.

Face is panting by the time Hannibal breaks away, and moves straight back in, because he can’t not kiss Face again, not when the kid’s lips are swollen and damp, his cheeks flushed and eyes dark. Not kissing Face again would be a crime.

When he can tear himself away long enough to jam a pillow under Face’s hips the kid blushes adorably, and that doesn’t really make any sense, so Hannibal stores it away to analyze later. It’s just another thing to join all the little mysteries about Face, the ones Hannibal never did figure out, like how the kid got that scar on the back of his neck, or why Christmas carols can make him alternately scowl and smile.

Or why he’s here right now, with Hannibal, when there was an entire club full of people who would have been more than willing to take him home. Did Hannibal seem like the easy choice, like the person who was the most likely to say yes, because he was the loneliest, the most desperate?

But Face must have considered the implications of all this. He may not always think with his head, but he’s far from stupid. Why then would he choose Hannibal, when he could have picked anyone else? Did he feel obligated to because he talked him into coming along in the first place?

That, too, makes no sense. Why drag Hannibal along to chase some tail? And why had Hannibal agreed? It hadn’t been the first time Face tried to make him go out, but up until tonight he’d always declined, not interested in watching the kid throw himself at anything on two legs. What had been different tonight?

Maybe Hannibal had been tired of being asked along, tired of Face’s whining and insistency. Maybe he’d hoped that, if he went out with Face this once, he might be left alone in the future. Or maybe he was terrified of Face not asking anymore, not wanting to spend time with him anymore, if he kept saying no.

Maybe he’d let himself hope, just for a moment, that Face wanted _him_ to come with him, wanted more than just some company, wanted Hannibal’s company.

The excited smile, all teeth and dimples, when he grudgingly agreed had almost made him believe it was true.

He’s distracted from his anger by cool fingertips brushing his chest, and he shakes his head slightly, finding a frowning Face staring up at him.

“You okay?” Face asks, quiet and guarded, like he’s afraid of the answer. Doesn’t make any sense at all, but now isn’t the time to try and unravel the mystery that is Templeton Peck.

“I’m fine,” he lies easily, and tries and fails to distract Face with another kiss.

“Not having second thoughts, are you?” Face whispers against his mouth, nips at his lip. “Because I’d feel a little bit awkward about leaving now, you know.”

“Right.” Hannibal sits up a little, enough to get the earlier discarded lube and condom.

Face laughs nervously and struggles up on his elbows, “I just mean—“

“I’m going to need you to spread your legs,” Hannibal interrupts, uncapping the lube.

“Hannibal, I—“

“Shut up and spread your legs, Face,” he says, making it sound like more of an order than he’d ever wanted it to.

“Okay,” Face whispers and lies back down, pulling his legs up and out. “Shit, sorry, no talking. Okay. Sorry.”

He pushes the first finger straight in, skipping the teasing, and it gets him a wince and a soft little _ouch_ from Face. The kid’s tight, a whole lot tighter than Hannibal would have expected and he’s taken aback by it, pulling out slowly and adding more lube.

“Sorry,” he murmurs and kisses Face’s hip in apology.

“It’s okay,” Face says, eyes shut tight and breathing in a way that Hannibal recognizes from training. “It’s just been a while, that’s all. Shit, fuck, no talking. I forgot. Sorry. Shutting up now.”

That explains a lot, Hannibal thinks. If the kid hasn’t been fucked in a long time it’s no wonder that enough alcohol made him consider Hannibal, what with his apparently obvious infatuation with Face. And isn’t that typical, that he’s the last resort for someone?

It really shouldn’t surprise him anymore at this point, much less hurt, but it still does.

He can at least see Face’s reasoning now: Hannibal is older than him, probably has some sort of reputation among the younger officers, Face probably expects him to make it good. Maybe he should be angry at Face for using him like this, for not caring about anything other than getting off, but he’s perversely pleased that Face came to him with this.

Because maybe if he makes this good enough, Face will want to come back for more.

And so he redoubles his efforts, crooking his finger until he finds the kid’s prostate, rubbing it until Face is relaxed enough to take a second one. He takes Face’s cock into his mouth then, rolls and kneads his balls in his palm to distract him from the burn as he’s stretched open, and soon enough the hissing has turned to keening, quick bursts of pre-come flooding Hannibal’s tongue.

He pulls off when Face gets close and it makes both of them whimper in disappointment.

Face is gloriously responsive, moaning when Hannibal hits a nice spot, twisting and turning and fucking _writhing_ in order to be touched exactly where he wants it. It’s primal and shameless, and Hannibal has never seen anything more beautiful.

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud until Face’s brow creases and his eyes blink open, displeasure written all over his features.

“Don’t…” Face gasps, twisting away a bit, “Don’t call me that.”

There’s bone-deep pain in that request; all the insecurities of a lifetime wrapped up in four little words, spoken with too much resentment.

What Hannibal wants to do is hold Face and kiss him and tell him that he’s beautiful and perfect and loved until he believes it, but Face obviously doesn’t want to hear that, not from him at least, and so he says nothing, and pushes a third finger in and just spreads.

It makes Face gasp and buck clean off the bed, mouth falling open and forehead smoothing, and, at least for the moment, it makes him forget about Hannibal’s little slip.

The hot, needy sounds Face is making make it increasingly difficult for Hannibal to take his time in opening him up, and he reaches down to touch himself, slowly fisting his erection as Face spreads his legs even more, rocking himself against Hannibal’s fingers.

“Can we… I mean, I…” Face mumbles, blushing again, and trying to hide it in the pillow.

“You ready?” Hannibal asks, and groans a bit at the frantic nod he gets in return.

He grabs the condom and is about to open it when a hand on his wrist stops him.

“Can’t we… Do we… Do we have to use that?” Face says, eyes wide and imploring, and it’s not surprising really; Face desperately wants to be claimed, the large bite mark Hannibal left on him is proof of that. Apparently he even wants it desperately enough to ask this of a one-night stand.

“Kid,” Hannibal says, and rips the foil packet open, “I’m not fucking you without a condom.”

“Right,” Face says quietly, and looks away, but not quickly enough to hide the hurt flashing in his eyes, and that’s something else to store away and think about later, something else that just doesn’t quite make sense.

By the time Hannibal has rolled on the condom Face has turned over onto his belly, legs spread wide and hips lazily pumping into a pillow.

He’d much rather Face be on his back for this, but the kid obviously doesn’t want that, and what would he say anyway? _I want to see your face while I fuck you_? _I want to see the exact moment when you come for me_?

No, because that would turn this into something more than just fucking and they can’t have that.

He pushes in too hard and too fast, making Face cry out and, paradoxically, buck back into him. Face is almost painfully tight around him and every in-stroke is as difficult as the first, so he takes it slowly, barely pulls out at all, just rocks his hips against Face’s until the kid relaxes around him and Hannibal can start fucking him in earnest.

From there it’s quick and dirty and spiralling out of control too quickly, all sweat and low groans and Face bucking and jerking, not even the lack of rhythm making them last longer.

Hannibal wants to say something, wants to warn Face, but all that comes out is another gasped beautiful, and Face comes, screaming into the pillow, internal muscles clenching down around Hannibal.

The last thing Hannibal thinks is that hopefully Face was too far gone already to listen to him, and then the kid whimpers, rhythmically, consciously tightening his muscles and Hannibal’s gone, biting down on Face’s shoulder to muffle his shout.

When Hannibal wakes up the next morning it is to the smell of stale sex and fresh coffee.

The only sign of Face is a lingering warmth in the sheets and a semen-crusted pillow, and so Hannibal drags himself out of bed and pulls on some pants. In the kitchen he finds a still-steaming mug of coffee waiting for him, a little note in Face’s deliberate hand stuck to it.

_Had to get back to base. Didn’t want to wake you._

He isn’t sure what he was expecting, but this isn’t it.

And neither is Face, who shows up with an uncertain smile and a case of beer when it’s barely getting dark outside.

“Face,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“I, uh… Can I come in?” Face asks, and Hannibal steps aside to let him in.

They stand in the entrance, at once too close and too far apart for Hannibal’s liking, and Face seems terribly, atypically awkward, glancing in the general direction of the living room and avoiding Hannibal’s eye.

He dimly remembers that awkwardness from the first time he ever invited Face into his house, years ago and before Face started feeling comfortable around him. It’s like that first time all over again; same uncertainty, same worried expression, same brand of beer.

The only indication that it isn’t the same are the faint lines beginning to crease the corners of Face’s eyes, lines that weren’t there back then, and the dark impression of Hannibal’s teeth etched into the kid’s throat. Hannibal vaguely wonders how he explained that away.

And it makes no sense. Why is Face here? Didn’t he get what he wanted last night? What more does he want with Hannibal?

“Wow, this is pretty awkward, huh?” Face asks, and tries to laugh but it gets stuck in his throat a little.

He rubs a hand over his mouth, and Hannibal frowns.

“Look, I,” Face tries again, looks at Hannibal for the briefest of moments and away again, “About last night…”

Ah, so that’s why he’s here.

“Face,” Hannibal interrupts, and Face hunches in on himself a little; _reflexive protective posture_ , Hannibal thinks, and that, too, makes no fucking sense. “You don’t have to say anything. I understand that this was a one-time thing. Let’s just leave it at that, alright?”

Face does look at him then, and frowns in a way that makes Hannibal want to kiss him, and so he walks into the kitchen, Face trailing along.

“I… Did you… Do you not want to do this again?” Face asks, setting the beer down on the counter and poking at a ragged cuticle.

“What?”

“I mean, did you not enjoy yourself last night or something? Because I was a little drunk and I promise I can be better. If, if you’d like me to, I mean.” Face’s frown deepens, and he tugs viciously at that little piece of skin and then swears as it comes away and sucks his thumb into his mouth.

“I,” Hannibal starts, and then stops because he’s not quite sure what to say here. “I just assumed this was a one-night stand, kid.”

His voice sounds off, he knows, but he thinks he ought to be forgiven here. This isn’t what he’s been steeling himself for all day, as he was tugging sheets that smelled like Face and sex and sin off his bed, as he drank his coffee and threw Face’s note in the trash. This completely throws his plan of action, because that didn’t involve Face showing up and being awkward and… wanting more?

“Oh?” Face asks, and his lips part around a slow smile, all that conman confidence sliding back into place. “Because I was really, really hoping for a repeat performance.”

He kisses Face, kisses him hard and fast and before he has time to think about any of this, because Face is here right now, maybe for the wrong reasons, but he’s here, and that might just be enough.

There’s nothing gentle in that kiss, nothing to suggest that this is more than lust; it’s all anger and frustration, years of undisclosed desires and unrequited feelings poured into this one act and Face whimpers into his mouth. Their teeth click and Face tugs at the front of his shirt a little, working his tongue deliberately out of synch with Hannibal’s, struggling not to fall back into the rhythm from last night.

Hannibal growls and grabs Face’s head in his hands, and Face struggles harder, but not as hard as he could.

_An act_ , Hannibal realizes, _it’s an act_.

And it is an act, one designed to make Hannibal force Face to budge and back down and submit, and the realization makes Hannibal growl low in his throat, more out of anger at being manipulated than anything else. Face shivers against him and moans, tipping his head back into Hannibal’s palm and exposing his throat in an obvious invitation.

He makes a high-pitched noise when teeth gently tug at already broken skin, worrying it just enough to make it hurt. Hannibal doesn’t miss the way Face winces and screws his eyes shut, though, there’s the kid’s hand at the back of Hannibal’s head, keeping him close, keeping him going. It should be a submissive gesture, but whatever this is Hannibal knows it isn’t submission, not with Face directing him back up into a bruising kiss.

The kid’s desperately trying to make Hannibal take control, but he’s not backing down, not _letting_ Hannibal. And what the hell is that all about?

He twists a hand into Face’s hair, yanks his head back just enough to be able to speak against Face’s mouth, voice low and warning, confusion bleeding in around the edges; “ _Face_.”

Just that one word, and nothing more, and it seems to be enough.

Face deliberately relaxes against him, lets Hannibal take a little more of his weight, lets his head fall back a little further, still cradled in Hannibal’s palm.

Hannibal feels something inside him clench viciously at that. He’s suddenly and painfully aware of how much Face is giving here, how much trust the kid is placing in him, and he almost wishes he wouldn’t. This isn’t the kind of thing you let just anyone do, or at least it shouldn’t be, but maybe Face missed a memo somewhere along the way, gave up on himself enough to let this happen during a couple rounds of casual sex.

It’s wrong and it shouldn’t turn Hannibal on, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about this, about dominating Face. Except, he never imagined it like this. In his mind it was always in a safe, loving environment, giving Face something he obviously craved. None of his fantasies involved all this anger and desperation between them.

“Hannibal, please,” Face breathes into his mouth, moaning in a way that makes Hannibal wonder whether it’s a real moan, bucking against his hold a little. “Oh, please…”

And Hannibal doesn’t understand. What exactly is Face asking of him here? Is he being too rough? Is he not being rough enough? Is he not making this good?

Face bites the corner of his jaw, not hard enough to leave any traces, but enough to send a little thrill straight to Hannibal’s cock, and whispers into his ear, needy and wanton, “I want you to _take_ me.”

It’s too perfectly pitched to be genuine. It’s not a lie; he obviously wants this, hard in his pants and grinding against Hannibal’s thigh. It’s just that this isn’t what he wanted to say, not really. It’s just another move to get Hannibal to do what he wants, and he wants to punch Face for it, for trying to con him like this.

Instead he shoves him face first into the wall, and the kid barely manages to bring his hands up to brace himself and avoid a broken nose. Hannibal has an arm across his shoulders, pinning him down, and he yanks Face’s pants and underwear down with his free hand.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, low and harsh, and twists his dry hand around Face’s cock, grinding his own clothed erection into the kid’s naked ass. “Is it?”

Face shudders and gasps, and goes limp, forehead against the wall, drawing shaky breaths. “I, I… I don’t…”

It takes Hannibal aback, that quivering tone of voice, the posture. Is this still an act?

He loosens his hold a little, and worry threads through his words, “Is this not okay, Face?”

Face twists his head and looks back over his shoulder, filthy grin firmly in place, and says, “Don’t think I can take it, old man?”

The mask that Face is hiding behind has cracks, but the transition between act and honesty is fluid, perfected by years of conning and pretending, slipping and sliding too quickly for Hannibal to figure out which is which. He’d have to guess, he doesn’t want to do that, even if the fact that the kid acts around him at all makes him grind his teeth.

He moves to let go, but Face grabs hold of his arm, pinning it where it’s pinning the kid down, and he grinds back into Hannibal.

“No, no, please, don’t go, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just… just don’t go, don’t stop, please,” Face says, quickly and nervously.

“Okay, okay. I’m not going on anywhere,” Hannibal says, more harshly than he meant to.

Face doesn’t say anything, just rests his forehead against the wall again, and doesn’t let go of Hannibal’s arm.

He doesn’t exactly keep lube in the kitchen, but he doesn’t think Face would take well to Hannibal leaving him to get it, even for a minute, so he spits in his hand and wraps it back around Face’s cock.

It doesn’t take long at all, a few practiced tugs, a thumb rubbing the head and pushing into the slit, and Face’s fingernails dig into Hannibal’s arm and Face comes into his cupped palm with a howl.

Face sags against the wall, sweat beginning to darken his shirt between his shoulder blades, breath coming in harsh gulps, but Hannibal doesn’t wait for him to recover. He spreads Face’s cheeks apart and pushes two fingers in, slick and warm, and the kid shudders when he feels his own come drip on his balls.

He’s tight, but still stretched open a little from last night, and Hannibal growls when Face whimpers and starts to push back against him. He rubs his fingers against Face’s prostate, the little keening noises telling him it should be enough to get the kid going again, and sure enough Face starts moving against his hand in no time at all.

“Oh, shit,” Face gasps, spreading his legs apart, “Fuck me, please, I can’t… _fuck_.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Hannibal soothes, kissing the skin just below Face’s ear. “It’s okay. Just calm down, kid.”

Face keeps making desperate little sounds as Hannibal pulls his fingers out and undoes his pants just enough to get his cock out, smearing what’s left of Face’s come onto it. The act of rubbing Face’s release into his skin makes him moan a little, cock twitching in his hand, and it makes Face buck and keen, even though, or maybe because, he can’t see what’s happening.

The initial penetration seems even more difficult than it did last night, and they both groan in sheer relief when the head of Hannibal’s cock pops through that twitching ring of muscle. He has a sticky hand low on Face’s stomach as he slowly sinks into him, and Face lets go of Hannibal’s arm to brace against the wall.

He kisses the back of the kid’s neck, breathing in the warm scent of criminally smooth skin and soft hair, and Face chokes on his own little sounds.

“You don’t have to be gentle, you know,” he whispers, a little harsh and a lot sad.

He almost says sorry, but instead he holds Face down and fucks him in quick, rough thrusts. It isn’t what he wants, but it’s what Face wants, and even if it’s not perfect, it’s still good. This _is_ all he ever wanted, really: to give Face whatever he wants, whatever he needs.

Face, for his part, is trying to muffle his moans against his own biceps.

“Don’t hold it in,” Hannibal murmurs against his cheek, “Let me hear you, sweetheart.”

And Face does, nearly sobbing as he’s raised up on his toes by every snap of Hannibal’s hips.

It’s getting harder and harder to hold back with the kid making those deliciously broken sounds, so fucking tight around his cock, and Hannibal snakes the hand on Face’s stomach down around his renewed erection. He lets the momentum of his thrusts push Face’s cock through his fist and tugs at his earlobe with his teeth.

“I’m so close, baby,” Hannibal groans, feeling Face’s cock jerks a little in his grip. “I need you to come, sweetheart. Come on… come for me.”

And Face comes with a strangled cry, spattering the wall in front of him with a small amount of semen, and it confuses the hell out of Hannibal. Did Face just come because he told him to? Or had Face already been about to? Did he just say it at the right moment, purely out of coincidence?

Either way, it’s enough to rip Hannibal’s own orgasm from him as he thrusts in as deep as possible and holds Face against him as he rides out the last of it.

It’s only when his softening cock slips out and he feels their combined semen drip out of Face’s open hole that it even occurs to him that they didn’t use a condom.

He slumps against Face, both of them trying to get their breathing under control, waiting for their hearts to stop hammering, and he can’t resist placing little kisses on the side of the kid’s hot, sweaty neck.

“You called me sweetheart,” Face says, very quietly, and shifts a little against him.

Hannibal pulls away, buys himself some time by tucking himself back into his pants and walking over to the counter, fingers the forgotten beer there.

“I, I’m sorry,” he says, and doesn’t look at Face.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I didn’t mean it,” he lies, feeling exposed and embarrassed.

Face sighs, loud and long, and his voice is scraped raw when he says, “I think I should go now.”

Hannibal looks at him, sweaty and covered in come, and something clenches in his chest again, making him feel sick.

“Do you want to take a shower?” he asks, and is surprised at the tightness of his throat.

Face laughs, then, low and harsh, and pulls his pants back up, and Hannibal doesn’t even want to think how uncomfortable that must be. How badly had he fucked up here, to make Face want to get away as fast as possible?

“Nah,” Face says, flashing Hannibal a patented mega-watt smile, “I don’t want to bother you. Besides, I’m pretty much used to it.”

“Right,” he says, and he can’t stand to look at Face right now, but he can’t look away either. He feels sick, because he’s let himself do this again, because Face is just using him, because there’s too many things that simply don’t add up and it makes his head spin.

And why isn’t Face leaving?

“Kid?” he asks, because Face is looking at him, too, expression faltering just a bit, like there’s something he wants to say, maybe, or something he wants Hannibal to say. “Was there something else you wanted?”

“No,” he says, a skewed version of his cocksure grin back in place, “there’s nothing else.”

A drop of moisture skids down the kid’s cheek, and Hannibal can’t tell whether it’s sweat or not, and then he’s gone and the front door closes behind him with a soft _snick_.

\--

He’s sitting in a corner booth at the back of a small, dimly lit bar that’s out of the way enough that he doesn’t think there’s going to be anyone military coming through those doors. None of the patrons give him a second thought, all of them civilian, he’s sure, and either busy drowning their own sorrows or else trying to find someone to go home with, or be taken home by.

A young woman, just a girl really, slides onto a bar stool and looks around, gives him a small smile that he doesn’t return and orders something. She twirls a strand of dark hair around her finger, bites her lip, takes her drink and glances at him again.

He quickly drains his glass and is about to get out of there, not a bit in the mood for whatever she has in mind, when two fresh glasses of whiskey are set down in front of him.

“Hi, honey,” the woman who brought the whiskey says, and leans down to kiss him full on the mouth.

“Hi,” Hannibal says faintly as she slides in across from him.

She grins a little and leans forward to whisper, “If you keep looking so shocked she’s never gonna buy it.”

She nudges the whiskey in his direction and takes a sip of her own.

“Excuse me?”

She bursts out laughing then, a low, delighted kind of chuckle that dimples her cheeks and makes him laugh along a little.

“I saw Daddy Issues back there looking at you,” she jerks her head in the direction of the bar where the girl that was eyeing him earlier is nursing her drink now. “You looked like you needed to be rescued, and could use another drink.”

“Thanks,” he says, not quite understanding but grateful nonetheless, and takes the glass she’s nudging in his direction again.

“Sure thing,” she replies, and grins again.

If Hannibal had to guess, he’d say she’s probably somewhere in her late thirties, dark hair and fair skin, her face thrown into stark contrast in the dim light. He can’t quite pinpoint the colour of her eyes, and her mouth twitches into a bit of a smile as he takes a long drink.

“It’s not drugged, is it?” he asks, heat spreading down his throat and coiling low in his belly.

She throws her head back and laughs again, and Hannibal decides she has an infectious laugh.

“Even if I wanted to tie you to my bed and do unspeakable things with you,” she says, and her grin is pure filth, “I wouldn’t be stupid enough to drug you here. You might pass out while we’re in the car and then I’d have to carry you up the steps to my apartment, and that,” she looks him over meaningfully, “I cannot see happening.”

He blinks at her, not at all sure what to say, but she just smiles and goes back to her whiskey.

They sit in silence for a while and Hannibal remembers the last time he got drunk anywhere other than his own living room, remembers thudding music and strobe lights and pineapples, remembers kissing Face and taking Face home and fucking Face. He also remembers why he’s even here right now, and that’s because Face is an insatiable bastard and turns up on Hannibal’s doorstep every single night, demanding sex.

It’s annoying as hell, not to mention presumptuous, but he can’t deny the kid, not when he’s wanted him for so long, even if he doesn’t truly have him now and never will. It’s still Face, and so he keeps letting him in.

That folder in the furthest recesses of his mind, the one where he catalogues and keeps all the little mysteries and inconsistencies about Face, and it has grown exponentially over the past month.

Something’s off, he knows, but every time he catches a gesture, a sound, a motion that doesn’t quite fit, Face distracts him with a hard kiss, a twist of the hips, a flick of the wrist, and by the time he realizes he’s being played it’s already gone.

He wants to know what’s going on, wants to figure out what Face is doing, but he’s never been as good at reading people as Face, and the kid is a master in the art of acting, he’s beautiful enough for it, too, even if he doesn’t want Hannibal to say so.

_Should have been in movies, he’s already an actor_ , Hannibal muses vaguely, and stares into his empty glass.

“So, what’s got a big, tough Army guy like yourself all worked up like this?”

He’s yanked back to reality by her voice, and looks up to find her carrying another round of drinks.

“Are you trying to get me drunk?” he asks, even as he takes a swallow. “And you don’t have to buy me drinks…”

She smiles into her own glass and says, “Don’t worry, you’re paying.”

He can’t help laughing as she winks and finishes half of it in one go.

“How did you know I was Army?” he asks, frowning, suddenly suspicious.

“My dad was an officer,” she says, and traces a finger around the rim of her glass. “But seriously, what’s got you so bothered?”

He shrugs, and is wracking his brain for something to tell her, but before he can so much as open his mouth, she holds up her hands.

“No, wait, don’t tell me,” she says, and he notices she’s slurring the tiniest bit at the same time he notices she’s gone a little fuzzy around the edges. “Don’t tell me. Let’s not talk about, about why we’re here or where we came from. Let’s be someone else, just for tonight.”

“Alright,” he says, not entirely sure why, except that being anybody else sounds like heaven right about now.

“Awesome,” she grins, and for a second he’s jolted back to Face saying that, but her dimples are closer to the corners of her mouth than Face’s. “You’ll be John, and I’ll be Jane.”

He can’t help the chuckle that escapes, “Well, _Jane_ , what would you say if I told you my name was actually John?”

“No shit,” she snorts, and drains her drink, slamming the glass back down, her movements becoming a little uncoordinated. “Next you’ll be telling me your last name’s Smith.”

He hides his smile behind his glass and she starts laughing again, getting a few looks from other people in the bar.

“Well, John Smith,” she says when she’s stopped laughing, cheeks flushed and eyes shining, “What do you say we get out of here?”

She’s gorgeous, he has to admit, and there’s something about her smile that makes him want to smile right along, or maybe kiss that dirty edge of her laugh right away. That’s not the problem.

It’s just that he can’t help thinking of Face, but Face isn’t interested in anything other than fucking, is he? He’s probably taking girls home himself, and why wouldn’t he? Hannibal is just there to satisfy some of his needs, nothing more, and it’s not like he means anything to the kid.

But then again, maybe if he makes it good enough for Face, maybe if he keeps getting him off, Face will grow to like him, and maybe, just maybe…

“Remember, we’re not us tonight,” Jane says, and it makes sense in the way drunk proclamations make sense to drunk people. “Tomorrow morning, we just walk away and get on with our lives.”

_Face would do it._ The thought flashes through Hannibal’s mind like lightning, and the voice that says it sounds bitter and vindictive, but he’s not Hannibal tonight.

“Alright,” John says, and puts a few bills on the table.

“Don’t look now, but Daddy Issues is watching you again,” Jane whispers into his ear and giggles as he slips his arm around her waist and guides her outside.

They never make it out of the parking lot.

Somehow, and he’s really not sure _how_ , they end up in the back seat of Jane’s car, her straddling his lap, kissing him like there’s no tomorrow. Her kisses are aggressive and they taste like whiskey, and she moans a little as he clenches a hand in her hair and grips his shoulders for support, grinding her crotch against his erection.

She gasps as he bucks up and throws her head back, one of his big hands cupping her breast through her thin sweater. He pushes both her shirt and bra out of the way enough to be able to kiss her breasts, and she makes a high-pitched noise as he presses his face right between them and breathes her in, all heat and spice and woman.

It’s so very different from what he’s had lately, from what he’s been having for long time, and it excites him more than it has in decades.

For a moment he’s transported back in time, back to his first girlfriend, Lucy O’Sullivan, fooling around in the back of her brother’s truck, aroused and terribly confused and absolutely clueless as to where to put his hands.

And then Jane gives a full-body thrash, banging her head on the roof of the car and not caring, as he nips at the underside of her breast.

“Oh fuck,” she whispers, fingers threaded through his hair and holding him in place as he sucks on her erect nipples. “Oh _fuck_.”

Their hips seem to find a rhythm completely on their own, a sort of grind-bump that has them both breathing heavily, and that’s a good thing because Hannibal isn’t sure his brain is up to anything more complex than that right now.

She pulls a condom out of her purse and scoots back on his thighs a little, enough to work open his flies, her fingers a little clumsy with alcohol and excitement. He’s hard in her hand and she gives him a few good pumps with her small fist; he closes his eyes and lets his head fall back, ashamed that he’s here, ashamed that he’s hard for this, for her.

“You okay?” she asks, hand slowing and stopping altogether.

He opens his eyes to find her watching his face, and there’s something there in her expression that makes it impossible for him to stop, and so he pulls her down into a kiss instead. It seems to convince her that he’s fine, or at least daze her enough to forget she even asked.

She rips the condom open and rolls it on, hand tight around the base of his cock, and he’s just starting to wonder how they’re going to do this when she turns herself around on his lap and pushes her own pants down to the tops of her boots, where they get stuck.

There’s some shuffling and bumping and they both laugh as they knock their heads together. They end up with her between his spread thighs, since she’s rendered basically immobile by her jeans, facing forward and bracing herself with one hand on the headrest of each front seat.

He can smell her arousal and it makes him growl a little and cup her ass in his hands, thumbs tracing down and forward until he can feel how wet she is. She curses and, before he has time to so much as slip a finger into her, she’s sitting down on him, dropping herself onto his cock in one fast move.

He gives a strangled shout, hips bucking up into all that tight, wet heat and she laughs, and it sounds so much dirtier than it did before.

She seems fine with doing all the work, dictating the pace and depth of penetration, using the front seats as her leverage as she works herself up and down his cock. Hannibal doesn’t seem to be required to do more than cup her breasts and kiss her neck from time to time and muffle his groans in her shirt.

It gives him time to think about all of this and, if he’s honest, he isn’t sure that’s such a good thing.

She’s all softness and curves, grasping internal muscles and slickness, fragrant hair and sweet sweat. It’s so very different from Face; not better, not worse, just _different._

But the fact remains that she isn’t Face. And Hannibal hates this, hates that he can’t even fuck a beautiful woman without the damn kid taking over his brain, that he can’t enjoy her tightness without comparing it to how Face feels around his cock. Her gasps, the involuntary little sounds getting ripped from her throat on every third thrust, the way she smells, and all he can think is that it’s not Face.

And when the fuck did he allow that? When did he let it get this far, this bad? He never agreed to any of this. He never asked to fall in love, especially not with someone who only sees him as a glorified sex toy. _Fuck this_ , he thinks.

It’s not fair that the kid just uses him to get off, waltzing in and out of Hannibal’s life as he pleases, while Hannibal is left aching for more. And not just more sex, as amazing as it is. He’s aching for sleepy kisses, complete with morning breath, and cooking dinner together and sharing showers and cuddling on the sofa and all that other stuff couples do.

He’s never wanted anything like this with another person before. He used to be just fine on his own, until one Templeton Peck was put in his unit and just stole his way into Hannibal’s heart.

It’s not fair at all, and the fact that Face exploits Hannibal’s apparent weakness for him makes him want to punch the kid until that pretty face of his is nothing more than blood and bruises.

He’s so caught up in his anger that he doesn’t notice how tight his grip on Jane’s hips has become until she gasps and whimpers in pain. He lets go of her immediately and she sits still for a moment, face hidden in the crook of her own arm, internal muscles still contracting rhythmically around him.

“Sorry,” he whispers, voice rough and strange. “I guess I got a little carried away there.”

“It’s okay,” she says, and he’s not sure whether she means that or not.

But then she’s moving again and he barely has time to think that Face at least isn’t so fragile before her motions become frantic, her gasps quicker. He squeezes a hand between her thighs and it only takes a few swipes of his thumb and she’s coming around his cock.

It’s enough to push him over the edge as well, and he almost hates that it’s good, almost wishes that through the haze of the whiskey he wouldn’t feel it so keenly.

They try to catch their breath and he can feel her wetness dripping onto his pants. He’s suddenly horribly aware of the sweat that’s making his shirt stick to his skin and the sharp, cloying smell of sex in the air. He has to swallow a few times, his throat suddenly tight, stomach churning.

Hannibal isn’t sure what bothers him more: that he just fucked a woman he doesn’t know or that he feels guilty for it.

He shouldn’t have to feel guilty, especially not because of Face. God knows how many girls the kid’s fucked since Hannibal has known him and that’s not counting all the ones that came before. It’s not like he owes the kid anything, either.

And he’s pretty damn sure Face wouldn’t have said no to something like this either. Someone older than him, meaningless fucking, absolutely no strings attached? Yeah, that sounds like something Face would enjoy alright.

Except that the kid hasn’t taken any girls home since this thing between them started, Hannibal’s sure. He’s been spending every night at Hannibal’s and even though he never stays, he’d be hard pressed to find time to pick up a girl and still get sleep.

And that’s just one of those things Hannibal doesn’t get. He knows the kid loves sex, but he also knows that he doesn’t have sex with the same person more than once very often. They last a week at the most, two if they’re particularly hot, but never this long, never several months.

He hates to admit it, but he takes some pride in being able to satisfy Face enough to keep him coming back for more, even if he hates the circumstances.

He’s shaken out of his thoughts when small hands pull the condom off him, knot it and throw it out the window. She’s sitting next to him, wriggling her way back into her pants, and he instantly feels guilty for drifting off like that again. She deserves better than that, better than someone who doesn’t even pay full attention to her.

He busies himself with tucking his spent cock back in, fumbling with his fly until she reaches over and zips him up. She grins at him, face and neck flushed, hair tousled and sweaty, and winks as she buttons his pants for him.

“What is it with you men always dropping off right after you’re done?” she asks, still grinning, and he doesn’t know what to say, so he kisses her again.

They get out of the car and the cool night air feels amazing on his overheated skin. He’s glad to note that she parked at the back and that the rest of the parking lot is almost deserted, curses himself for being so careless in the first place.

_Worse than a horny teenager_ , Hannibal thinks and rubs a hand over his face, feeling even more ashamed.

“Want me to drive you home?” she asks, and he looks up to find her leaning against the front door.

He didn’t take the car and spending the ride home in a cab, smelling like sex and booze, doesn’t sound very appealing, so he gratefully agrees.

The drive is mostly silent. He gives her directions and there’s the occasional attempt at small talk, but nothing else.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks at some point, not looking at him. “The thing that’s bothering you?”

“It’s nothing,” he says, and that’s that.

When they reach his place he thanks her and she grins and kisses him on the cheek.

“You know,” she says, biting her lip before ploughing on, “if it really were nothing, you wouldn’t be so fucking miserable. You should figure it out, whatever it is. Talking about stuff may be girly, but keeping it all in usually only makes it worse.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods and she smiles at him like that’s enough.

He watches her drive away and out of his life, still vaguely wondering what colour her eyes were, and it’s not until he reaches the porch that he sees Face standing at his front door.

“Hey, kid.”

“Who, uh, who was that?” Face asks, frowning at the car’s disappearing taillights.

Hannibal scrubs a hand over his face, pulls his keys out of his pocket and immediately wishes he hadn’t, because it draws Face’s eyes to the front of his pants where the evidence of the evening’s activities is starting to crust.

Face looks away, swallows audibly, rubbing the back of his hand over his mouth as he forces out a laugh. There’s nothing happy about it, none of that glee or wicked delight that Hannibal has come to know; it sounds sad and strange.

He can’t read Face right now, and knows that it’s because Face doesn’t want him to.

“Why are you here, Face?” Hannibal asks, suddenly tired. Tired of pretending he doesn’t care, tired of trying to please Face, tired of not understanding the kid, tired of all of this.

Face looks at him then, and Hannibal almost wishes he didn’t.

“You really have to ask me that?” Face asks, keeping his voice low, Hannibal knows, in an effort not to let it betray his emotions, but what those might be he has no idea.

“Wouldn’t ask if I knew, kid.”

He immediately knows it was the wrong thing to say when he gets another one of those strange laughs and Face makes to walk away from him.

“Face, wait.”

He stops, but doesn’t turn back around and Hannibal isn’t sure what to say, or do, and he thinks that might just be a first. The kid’s posture is tense, hands clenched into fists against his thighs, and he’s not moving, not talking, not giving anything away.

“Face,” he tries again, “what’s going on, kid?”

“What’s going on,” Face grinds out, still refusing to look at Hannibal, “is that you’re off fucking random women while I’m, while I’m waiting for you here.”

“Don’t make this about her, Face,” he says, anger creeping into his own voice. “Who I sleep with is none of your business. And don’t pretend you wouldn’t be off picking up girls the second I stopped giving you what you wanted.”

The kid’s in his face then, one hand twisted into the front of Hannibal’s shirt, the other knocking into his chest over and over again with a barely contained desire to hurt, and they both know Hannibal could throw him off if he wanted to.

“Fuck you,” Face snarls, and something flashes in his eyes, something other than fury, but it’s gone before Hannibal can put a finger on it. It’s that damn conman mask slipping again, and he wonders whether it only did because Face wanted it to. “Was I not good enough or something? Was that it? Because I was _trying_ , and in case you haven’t noticed, _I_ haven’t been picking up girls.”

“Oh, so that’s what this is about?” Hannibal asks, and closes his hands around Face’s upper arms hard enough to make the kid’s jaw clench. “Pissed that you wasted your time with me when you could have gone out and found some pretty little thing to fuck, lieutenant?”

“No, _colonel_ ,” Face hisses, so close that their noses bump painfully. “No, I’m _pissed_ that I wasted my time thinking that this meant something to you, that maybe, just fucking _maybe_ this could be something _more_.”

There’s a funny ringing in his ears, and Hannibal starts feeling vaguely sick as the implications of what Face is saying sink in, but Face doesn’t give him time to react.

“So don’t you fucking _dare_ try and justify what you’ve done,” Face says, and, though his fists are still twisted into Hannibal’s shirt, all the anger has left his voice, his expression, and all that’s left is hurt.

This, Hannibal realises, is his real face, the one he’s been hiding behind a mask of anger and vicious words.

“How fucking stupid of me, to think that you would ever care,” Face whispers, breath hitching just a bit, and pushes Hannibal away.

And suddenly all those little things, all the inconsistencies in Face’s behaviour, all the mysteries that Hannibal could never quite figure out, all the things that never made sense, never added up, do.

Face’s constant attempts to make Hannibal go out with him, the angle of his smile as he produces a cigar from nowhere before Hannibal has even patted his pockets, half-finished sentences trailing off into nothing and words Hannibal never let him say. Cases of beer used as an excuse to come by, turning into pizza they never eat and movies they never watch, too desperate for each other. Pineapples and coffee and too rough touches, and none of it what either of them really wanted.

“Templeton, I,” and he never gets to say it, because Face’s fist connects with his chin, and it knocks his jaw shut and he bites his tongue, knuckles splitting his lip as Face’s hand slips.

“Fuck you,” Face says, voice trembling, desperately trying to hold on to his anger and nothing else, and Hannibal is horrified to see tears in those eyes. “ _Fuck you_.”

He wants to say something, wants to reach out, but Face walks down his driveway and away from him, cursing as he kicks a dustbin hard enough to send it flying to the middle of the road with a loud enough bang to get the neighbour’s dog barking.

Hannibal’s jaw is throbbing, and his mouth is full of his own blood, and he thinks he probably deserves it.

\--

“Face,” Hannibal says, and slides onto the barstool next to him as Face signals the bartender for two more of whatever he’s drinking.

It turns out to be whiskey, much to Hannibal’s surprise; he’s never seen the kid drink anything other than beer or those ridiculous cocktails he likes to indulge in. It’s not that kind of a night, though, and not that kind of a bar, and if he’s honest he doesn’t know why Face even chose this place.

It’s more something to Hannibal’s tastes, the kind of thing he’d pick for a night of drinking, no loud music and no grinding bodies and just the alcohol to muffle his thoughts.

“I really don’t like whiskey, you know,” Face says, and grimaces as he swallows, a little shudder rippling through his body.

He doesn’t look at Hannibal, and traces slow patterns on the sticky bar, and a memory flickers to life before Hannibal’s eyes: two nights before Face’s first mission, the two of them, in a different bar, in a different town, having a different conversation and drinking the same whiskey. 

“Then why do you keep drinking it?” he asks, because he doesn’t think he understands.

Face meets his eyes then, and they’re just as blue and just as lost as they were all those years ago.

“Because you like it,” he says, and offers Hannibal a smile that is just a bit too crooked to be happy. “I keep trying to like it because you like it, and I just _can’t._ I fucking hate the way it tastes, but it’s better than nothing, you know?”

Hannibal isn’t sure he does. Face has a bit of a thing for metaphors, for symbols, things that mean other things, because he finds them easier to say, that much Hannibal knows. It’s figuring out _what_ they mean that he’s never been very good at.

“Remember back when I’d just joined your unit?” Face asks, and his smile is a little less sad, a little more fond now, and Hannibal wants to kiss him. “We were gonna do this batshit op, and I was freaking out, because it was my first and I didn’t know if I trusted you to get me back alive. I didn’t know if I trusted _myself._ I was trying to act like I was fine, and I thought I was doing pretty well, but I wasn’t, was I?”

No, he wasn’t doing a good job of hiding his fear at all, Hannibal remembers. Face is a good actor, a better liar, but, however good Face may be at hiding them, he has his tells like everyone else. It was the way he’d rub his hand over his mouth when he laughed because the angle of his smile was all wrong, and in the way he worried his bottom lip when he thought no one was looking, and in the pitter-patter rhythm his fingers would drum against his thigh.

“No, you weren’t,” Hannibal says, smiling a bit at the memory of being able to read Face.

“You dragged me to that one bar and made me drink whiskey with you,” Face says, and there’s something terribly forlorn in his expression, and his voice catches a little. “We just sat there until closing time and then we walked home. We didn’t even talk. Do you remember that?”

“Yeah, kid,” Hannibal says, “I remember that.”

There’s nothing after that, and eventually they both look away, nursing their drinks.

“I wanted you to notice that I wasn’t okay,” Face says suddenly, and it’s blunt in a way Face never is. “I wanted you to see it, because I wanted you to take me aside and tell me that it was all going to be fine. But you didn’t.”

There’s something in the kid’s voice that isn’t quite disappointment, and it makes Hannibal squirm uncomfortably in his chair.

“You just took me out and ordered us that fucking whiskey and sat with me until I felt like I could breathe again,” Face says, and laughs a little at the memory, and it’s strained and brittle. “It, it wasn’t quite the fatherly talking to I’d envisioned, but that was okay. I was so happy to take whatever you were willing to give me.”

Hannibal doesn’t know what to say, and Face is staring into his own glass, and his lashes throw strange shadows across his cheek in the low light of the bar.

“What’re you saying, Face?” he asks, and Face’s eyebrows draw together and up as he meets Hannibal’s eyes again.

“I hated the whiskey,” he says, and they’re back to symbols again, “but you’d ordered it for me, and you liked it, and I wanted, I wanted what you wanted.”

Honesty isn’t something Face is good at, and this might just be the closest he’ll ever get to truly verbalizing what’s going on, and Hannibal doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do with that.

“We really talking about the whiskey, kid?” he asks, and immediately wishes he hadn’t when Face looks away and downs the rest of his drink.

“Forget it, boss,” Face says, and his voice is deceptively light, and he doesn’t meet Hannibal’s eyes again.

Fuck.

Hannibal extracts a cigar from his jacket, but before he can light it he is politely informed that smoking isn’t allowed here. He mutters a curse, and Face sighs and puts a few crumpled notes onto the bar.

“Come on,” he says, and nudges Hannibal as he gets up, “let’s get out of here.”

The air is crisp and cold, the kind of weather were you expect it to start snowing any second but it never does, and the light of the flame as Hannibal lights his cigar washes warm and golden over Face’s skin.

There’s a line between Face’s eyebrows, one that appears when Face is particularly worried or unhappy or angry, or all three, and Hannibal knows that this one is all because of him. It’s a hollow kind of truth, nothing helpful or satisfying about discovering it, and Hannibal still wants to brush that pain away, but he doesn’t think he knows how.

Face’s hands are shoved into his coat pockets, like he doesn’t know what to do with them or maybe he doesn’t trust them, and his breath fogs between them to mix with the smoke from Hannibal’s cigar.

“Let me take you to dinner,” he says abruptly, before he can really think about it and lose his nerve.

Face jerks a little in surprise and stares at him, and his expression is carefully blank, his eyes wide, and Hannibal wonders whether he’s got this all wrong again.

“Hannibal,” Face says, quiet and tired and a little angry, “You can’t take me to dinner. You’re my superior officer, not to mention that we’re both men. What do you think the Army would have to say about that?”

“I don’t care what the Army has to say about it, Face,” he replies, speaking around his cigar.

“Yes, you do,” Face says, and they both know it’s true.

“Let me cook for you, then,” Hannibal offers, and finds that it feels strange when he tries to smile.

“Since when do you cook? Unless you call picking up a phone and ordering pizza cooking, of course.” There’s a bit of a grin in Face’s voice, but it’s empty and fake.

“I can cook,” Hannibal says, trying for faux indignant, and the corner of Face’s mouth twitches a little.

“Mmhmm, sure you can,” Face says, eyes twinkling almost like they always used to when he was teasing Hannibal.

“I can,” Hannibal repeats, and resists the urge to poke Face and make him laugh and squirm.

It’s the hollow corpse of their easy banter, and they’re the ones who killed it.

“Let me cook for you,” Hannibal says again, a little quieter, much more serious.

“If you want to keep fucking me just say it,” Face hisses, and it’s vicious and hurt. “You don’t have to bother with the seduction.”

“Face,” Hannibal says, and he dares to put a hand on Face’s shoulder, squeezes a bit. “Let me do this, please. Saturday night, my place?”

Face looks at him for a long moment, and Hannibal can almost see his mind working and working and working behind those narrowed eyes.

And then the kid shrugs him off, and says, “Fine, whatever,” and walks away, and all Hannibal can do is watch him go.

\--

There’s a part of Hannibal that expects Face to just not show up, but the part of him that desperately wants Face to show up is bigger and more insistent, and so he does cook and set the table, and hopes that the kid will give him a chance to fix this.

It’s seven by the time his doorbell rings, and Face stands there, clutching two bottles of wine and frowning at his feet.

“I didn’t know whether I should bring red wine or white wine, so I brought both,” he says by way of explanation, and their fingers touch briefly when he hands them over.

“Thank you,” Hannibal says, and his throat is suddenly dry, heart beating a nervous rhythm against his ribs.

Dinner is a terribly awkward affair; more awkward and uncomfortable than Hannibal can remember anything ever being in the presence of this man, and after his fifth attempt at conversation is quietly murdered he sets his fork down. Face mirrors him, and looks at him, and Hannibal recognizes that look, that angle of his jaw, and it doesn’t mean anything good.

“Face,” he says, and sighs, and offers his hand, palm-up, and Face doesn’t take it.

He pulls his hand back with another sigh and runs it through his hair instead, trying to come up with something to say, and he can’t think of a single fucking thing.

Face doesn’t want to be here, wants to leave, that much Hannibal can tell. It’s why he’s not doing it that he doesn’t understand. He tries to find a crack in Face’s defensive façade, something to clue him in as to what’s going inside his head and how he can possibly make it better, but there’s nothing there.

“Look,” Face says, and leans back in his chair, clears his throat, rubs a hand over his mouth, “can we just skip all this bullshit and fuck? I was kind of hoping to turn in early tonight.”

“Is that what you want?” Hannibal asks, and he knows he failed at keeping the anger out of his voice, the hurt out of his expression.

“Does it matter?” Face asks, and braces his forearms on the table. “Does it matter if I want it or not?”

“Of course it matters,” Hannibal says, and he doesn’t like where this is going at all.

“Really?” Face asks with a slight arch of an eyebrow, and his voice is entirely too light for what he’s saying. “Because this was never about what I wanted, so I’m just wondering when that changed.”

“Don’t act like I forced you into this, Face,” Hannibal says, voice tight and low. “You were the one who started it.”

Face laughs, actually _laughs_ , and Hannibal knows it’s supposed to be mocking, but it’s bitter and disappointed and there’s absolutely nothing left of what it used to be, and that’s just another thing that died along the way.

“You know what,” Face says, struggling to regain his breath, “fuck this.”

He gets up and, without preamble or explanation, unbuttons his shirt.

“What the fuck are you doing, Face?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He shrugs his shirt off and starts on his belt, and Hannibal shoves back from the table for lack of anything better to do. “I’m getting naked so you can fuck me and I can get out of here.”

“Face, stop.”

“Can I keep the socks on?” Face asks, toeing his shoes off and pushing his pants down.

“ _Face_ ,” Hannibal yells, and the kid doesn’t even flinch, standing naked in the middle of his CO’s living room.

Instead he closes the distance between them, and hauls Hannibal closer by his shirt, and their kiss is all teeth and anger and not a kiss at all, really. It takes him less than a minute to shove Face away, but it’s enough for the split in his lip to reopen, and there’s a smudge of red across Face’s mouth.

“What, you don’t want to fuck me anymore?” he spits, and there’s pain flashing in his eyes, and Hannibal has no idea what Face wants from him.

“Not like this, kid,” he says, and his voice isn’t as steady as he’d like it to be. “Not when you don’t want it.”

“It’s _always_ been like this,” Face shouts, and throws his hands up, calm exterior finally cracking. “Did you seriously think I wanted _any_ of that? That I got off on it? On you hurting me?”

It’s a painful truth, one that he didn’t expect, and for a moment he can’t say anything at all.

“Face,” Hannibal says, and has to clear his throat before he can go on. “I thought, I thought you wanted it that way. I was only so rough because I thought… I never meant to hurt you. I’m sorry.”

Something flickers over the kid’s face then, and Hannibal watches as all the fight and all the anger just drains right out of him. It leaves Face looking small and tired, and he wraps his arms around his bare chest, and no matter how often he blinks he can’t keep the sadness out of his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Hannibal says again, and knows it doesn’t make this better.

He can see Face’s throat working, and he picks up the discarded shirt and holds it out to him, and they don’t say anything as Face gets dressed again. His hands are steady as he buttons his shirt, and Hannibal marvels at that for a moment before he realizes that he just missed perhaps the only opportunity to touch Face again.

“Please don’t run, kid,” he says, and Face just looks at him.

“I wanted you from the moment I saw you,” Face says, and his voice is raw and his eyes are wet. “But more than that, I wanted you to want me. I tried so hard to be what you wanted.”

“Face, I always wanted you,” Hannibal whispers, and steps closer. “It’s only ever been you.”

Face smiles at him then, and it’s the sad and twisted shadow of his real smile. “Tell me something,” he says, and he can’t quite keep his voice from cracking, “if two people want each other, and they get each other, and all they do is make each other miserable, is that really worth it?”

And Hannibal doesn’t have an answer to that.

“So what now?” Face asks after a while, throat working as he swallows hard. “What do we do now, boss?”

“I don’t know, kid,” Hannibal admits, and he feels older than ever before.

“Do we just,” Face gestures vaguely and then shrugs when he can’t come up with anything. “Do we just go on like nothing happened?”

“I can call in some favours if you like, get you transferred out of my unit, if that’s what you wanted,” Hannibal says, even though that’s the last thing he wants to say.

“Do you not want to work with me anymore?” Face asks, looking at him with all his hurt and insecurities written right across his features and it makes Hannibal’s heart ache.

“Kid,” Hannibal says, and he can’t stop himself from walking over and cupping Face’s cheek in his palm. “I will _always_ want to work with you.”

“Yeah?” Face asks, and he sounds so hopeful that Hannibal wants to puke.

“Yeah,” he says, instead, and it’s so heavy that it feels like he’s agreeing to something else entirely.

Face sighs, and leans into his hand a little, and he doesn’t quite smile when he says, “Good, because I never wanted to work with anyone else.”

Hannibal knows he should say something, but he’s too afraid to; too afraid to break the moment, too afraid to make it worse, too afraid to fuck it up again. So he says nothing, and thumbs away a tear that escapes frantically blinking eyes, and hopes it’s enough.

“Can I stay here?” Face asks, and it’s very quiet and very desperate. “Tonight, I mean. Can I stay here tonight?”

“Of course, kid,” Hannibal says, and he wants to kiss Face, but he doesn’t.

They sleep in Hannibal’s bed that night, with Hannibal spooned around Face and Face curled up into a little ball, clutching Hannibal’s arms against his chest. They don’t talk, or kiss, or even take off their clothes, and when Hannibal wakes up in the morning Face is already gone.

His own personal scent clings to Hannibal’s pillows, but the bed’s cold, and there’s neither note nor coffee waiting for Hannibal when he comes into the kitchen and even the dishes from the night before have been cleared away.

Face is there for the next team meeting, though, and he’s still there when Hannibal takes him aside to explain about a special op in Mexico a few weeks later, and if he fucks a few too many girls and gets drunk a little too often, then that’s none of Hannibal’s business.

\--

They’re okay, for the most part. There’s a few awkward moments when the tension between them gets a little too much, when Hannibal is at Face’s throat for things that don’t really matter and Face mouths off a little too much, when Face gets drunk and sad and lonely and Hannibal knows he can’t give him what he wants.

They slip up only once, just after Mexico. Hannibal’s furious at Face for almost getting himself killed, and furious at himself for bringing out that self-destructive streak in the kid again, and once they’ve got Murdock and BA settled and are actually alone it hits them both.

They haven’t been alone, truly alone with no one around and no mission to get through, since that last night over a month ago, and now they’re standing in Hannibal’s kitchen after everything’s been worked out and the excitement has fully died down. It gives Hannibal far too much time to think about what might have happened had he been just a moment too late, and makes it far too easy for the awkwardness to set in.

“Man, what a day,” Face laughs, and rubs at tired eyes with a grimy hand, and even that movement is awkward. “I’m so fucking tired, you have no idea.”

“Almost getting killed will do that you,” Hannibal snaps, and it’s more vicious than he really meant for it to be.

Face goes still and his eyes widen and he looks at Hannibal for a long, silent moment. “I’m sorry, boss,” he says, and he sounds it.

“Tell me, Face,” Hannibal says, and even as he says it he knows this is only going to hurt them both, “what, precisely, are you sorry for? Almost getting yourself killed, or almost getting me killed, or almost getting BA killed? Are you sorry for fucking her?”

Face’s eyes harden, then, and his jaw clenches visibly, and his voice is low and threatening when he says, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Are you threatening me, lieutenant?” Hannibal asks, and he takes a step closer to Face.

“Stop fucking pulling rank on me, _sir_ ,” Face spits and jabs Hannibal in the chest.

It’s almost sad how easy it is from there; Hannibal grabs Face’s arm and spins them around, and he slams Face down into the table, pins him there with a hand around his neck and his arm twisted behind his back, and the way Face struggles almost has him fooled.

“Tell me,” Hannibal growls, leaning in to speak into Face’s ear, “are you enjoying this, lieutenant?”

Face shudders and goes limp, and he gasps when Hannibal twists his arm further. “Yes, sir,” he whispers, and Hannibal can hear the pain the admission causes him in his voice.

It’s then that he realizes what he’s doing, and he immediately lets go of Face and makes to step back.

“No, no, please,” Face says, stumbling over his words as he’s up and grabbing for Hannibal in a heartbeat. “Please, boss. It’s okay, you didn’t hurt me.”

“Face, I can’t,” Hannibal says, and he’s so very, very tired.

“I miss you so fucking much, boss,” Face breathes, and the fading sunlight washes over his exhausted face, and there are circles under his sad eyes.

Their kiss is hard and punishing, because that’s all it can be, and it tastes like dried sweat and dirt and blood and gasoline, and it hurts more than Hannibal thought it would. There’s nothing arousing about it, nothing exciting, and when they pull away it feels like something else just joined all the things that died along the way, and they don’t know _what._

“Do you want to stay?” Hannibal asks, and Face nods, and that night he stays curled up on the couch wearing a pair of Hannibal’s pyjamas and wrapped in a well-loved blanket.

He’s still there and still asleep when Hannibal gets up, and they end up having breakfast together, and then they drive back to base together, and they don’t talk about much of anything.

\--

“Boss, could you do that?” Face asks, and his voice is scraped raw. “To us, I mean.”

Hannibal sees a kind of pain he hasn’t seen in nearly a decade in Face’s eyes, and even before he answers he knows that Face doesn’t believe him.

\--

Face is sitting at the kitchen table, legs pulled up against his chest and chin on his knees, when Hannibal walks in.

“What are you doing up?” he asks, and Face starts a little at his voice.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says, and immediately yawns and rubs his eyes. “You?”

“Same,” Hannibal admits, and starts rooting around the cupboards of their current borrowed safehouse.

“What’re you doing?” Face asks, frowning at Hannibal and rubbing his cheek against his knees, the motion startlingly childlike in a way he hasn’t seen in Face in years.

“I,” Hannibal says as he finds kettle and tea bags, “am making tea.”

“You’re making tea,” Face echoes, looking adorably confused. “Why are you making tea?”

“Because that’s what you do when people can’t sleep,” he says, filling the kettle with water and putting it on the stove.

“It is?” Face asks, completely incredulous.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, and scrubs a hand over his face. “Look, kid, it’s just what I do when I get stressed, alright?”

“You make tea?” Face asks, and his mouth twitches a little.

“Yes,” Hannibal says, and does his best to look stern. “You got a problem with that?”

“Not at all, sir,” Face says, grinning now, and Hannibal stopped reminding him that they’re not in the Army anymore a long time ago.

“Shut up, Face,” he grumbles, trying to suppress his own smile.

They’re quiet as Hannibal makes the tea, and they sit at the kitchen table together for a long while, cradling steaming mugs between their palms in the cold predawn hours.

“They’re gay, you know,” Face says when the tea has cooled down enough to drink, and Hannibal stops mid-swallow. “The couple who own this house, I mean.”

Hannibal forces his throat muscles to work and carefully sets his mug down before saying, “Yeah, kid. I know.”

“Did you ever want that?” Face asks, and it’s said in the way Face only ever says things in these quiet hours of the night, when his defences are down and it’s easier to say a hard thing. “Did you ever imagine what it would be like, to just live with someone you loved, to just be with them and not have to worry about bullshit Army regulations?”

“Yeah, kid,” he sighs heavily, and looks into his tea, and Face really is no kid anymore.

“Did you ever want it with me?” Face asks, and it’s so quiet that Hannibal almost thinks he’s imagined it.

He looks up at Face, and sees the sadness there, and he can’t do anything except nod and reach over to squeeze the kid’s hand.

“There’s no Army regulations now,” Face whispers, and Hannibal’s hand slides up his arm to cradle his stubbly cheek.

“I know, kid,” Hannibal says, rubbing his thumb against Face’s cheekbone, and the kid sighs and leans into it a little. “But that doesn’t mean we can do this.”

“I know we fucked up back then, boss,” Face says, and he reaches up to keep Hannibal’s hand on his skin. “But things have changed. We’ve changed.”

They _have_ changed, and it’s been so long since all of it that sometimes Hannibal almost forgets it did, almost believes it happened to someone else.

“I know we were miserable, John,” Face says, and it suddenly strikes Hannibal how much older Face has gotten, how much more of the cheeky, blue-eyed boy has disappeared behind a tired, serious man. “But I also know that we’re no less miserable when we’re apart.”

Hannibal leans in and kisses him, then, soft and gentle, and it tastes like lack of sleep and sweet tea and home, and when they pull apart Face isn’t quite smiling, but his eyes are crinkling at the corners and there’s a little bit of the old sparkle back in them. It’s everything a first kiss should be, and that it’s not their first kiss makes no real difference, makes it better, if anything.

Something passes over the kid’s face then, and Hannibal wishes he knew what it was, but he never did figure out how to read Face. And maybe, Hannibal thinks, maybe that doesn’t even matter. Maybe all that matters is that he can make Face a little less tired, a little less sad. Maybe that’s all this is about.

There’s a million things that they should say, and they both know that, and they still simply curl up in bed together and fall into a deep, exhausted sleep, and leave their half-drunk tea to cool on a kitchen table in a house that isn’t theirs.


End file.
